Wine & Prejudice
by PippinStrange
Summary: For fans of LBD, a retelling of Jane Austen's classic in the Willamette Valley. Drowning in student debt, Lizzy moves back in with her parents & three younger sisters. When the eldest, Jane, begins dating the owner of the Netherfield Vineyards, a bitter rivalry ensues between Lizzy and his best friend, Fitz Darcy. Enjoy a romantic comedy set in the wine-tasting industry of Oregon!
1. Meet the Bennets

My dear readers,

Please enjoy this modern reincarnation of Pride and Prejudice. I hope to honor the great Ms. Austen by uprooting her lovely dramedy and replanting it amongst the vineyards of the pacific northwest wonderland. The result is something oddly biographical for both my sister and myself, as we've always felt like our own reincarnations of the Bennet sisters. I hope you all enjoy being a part of this family as much as we have.

My best,

Pip

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Chapter One

Meet the Bennets

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It is a fact generally agreed upon that being awoken too early on a Saturday is a bitch, especially when a working class girl is dreaming about romantic trysts that reality never sees fit to allow her otherwise.

I'm having a dream that its 1803, and I'm wearing a snug empire waistline, and I'm being kissed in rain.

I know something is decidedly _off _because of the orchestral music in the background. Music doesn't accompany real life, particularly not a symphonic crescendo that typically swells when two characters finally kiss for the first time.

I grow distracted, realizing I can't see the face of whom I'm playing tongue hockey with. And the music has grown sort of... ugly. It makes one of those popular _BWAAAAM _sounds, like Hans Zimmer smashing his forehead repeatedly against an organ. You know, the big Hollywood slam that happens in every trailer ever.

My beautiful sage green dress blows in the wind, and even though I must look enticing to some degree to my dream-boyfriend, the kissing somehow stops. At this point I can only pay attention to the never-ending sound.

Its sounding less like background music and more like an alarm that goes off when a big truck is in reverse.

"Ignore that," I say.

"I refuse to order the spinach," says my lover.

Only too true. My dream-boyfriend would be allergic, kindly leaving all the spinach for me.

A shrill truck alarm makes me flinch out of a deep sleep. There's a sound of an engine switching gears, a puff and a whine of hydraulics, and then the alarm repeats.

_Beep, beep, beep, _

_roar, _

_beep, beep, beep... _

I try to ignore my phone buzzing on my nightstand until it grows incessant. I unlock the phone and stare incredulously at the group message my mother is sending to my father and I.

...

Mom - Did you guys see the truck this morning/

Dad - Yes

Mom - Do you know if they rent or sold it?

Dad - Yes

Mom - The new name on the mailbox is Bingley

Dad - Yes

You - You're blowing up my phone pls stop

...

I glance out my window into the gray light of dawn, and see the truck trying to back into the lengthy drive way to the big house. The driver rolls backwards the entire way, nearly hits a tree, pulls forward, and then begins his reverse journey again.

_BEEP, BEEP, BEEP, BEEP... _

_roar... _

_BEEP, BEEP, BEEP... _

He probably has no idea the drive way is a massive circular gravel plaza with a fountain in the middle, and there is no reason for him to try backing in at all.

Either way, I know I won't be able to go back to sleep now.

"Bastards," I whisper quietly, letting the shade fall back against the window with a clatter. I flop back onto my bed, bounce off, and stumble to my closet for a pair of leggings and worn sneakers.

...

Mom - please invite them to the barbecue this wkend

Dad - ?

Mom - the bbq

Dad- ?

Mom - this weekend

Dad - ?

You - mom pls delete me from group message

...

Naturally, someone would move into the big house. It is inevitable. It sits on the prime real estate of wine country, south of Portland, Oregon, where the vineyards outnumber the population and the wine section at the grocery store uses up six aisles and is still expanding.

Someone with a bit of well-earned money would buy the house, and probably inherit the vineyards too. Often, the houses on the properties would be converted into the show room or a wine cellar, or they would build an entirely new, state-of-the-art facility. Just look at Rex Hill Vineyards. Yes, it's a real place, you can look it up. They've had construction going for as long as I can remember. It feels like years. Yes, Rexy, don't think we haven't been watching this construction for months. At this point you are the Willy Wonka of wineries.

After the new owner does their overhaul, then comes the tours and tastings and local music artists that play a nostalgic guitar while well-dressed participators taste their wines and nibble their cheeses. It's a rosy flavor, with a bitter undertow! No, it has a roasted, cherry-warmth vibe, perfect for under-cooked steak! Nay, tis a light, delicate, golden nectar, meant for consuming with a peach dessert.

Sorry, I've done this a lot. There's not much else to do around here on a Saturday. I have to space out my trips back and forth between the coffee shops and the library... otherwise, people may talk.

The Big House (my own Lewisian emphasis here) was real estate ripe for yet another wine connoisseur. Business is booming in the Willamette valley.

...

Mom - OK just got txt from Peggy Long she says he's single

Dad - OK

Mom - super nice she says she met him

Dad - who?

Mom - the new neighbor

Mom - vingley

Mom - vingley

Mom -*bingley

Dad - vingley vingley bingley ;P

You - GUYS

...

In the small town of Meridian, the Big House is just another wealthy mansion located on the outskirts, but we have the privilege of being the closest neighbors. Its located at the end of a long driveway, which makes it look mysterious, with a gated front and massive oak trees shielding the wealth from wanting eyes. There did seem to be a wedding on the grounds once in a while.

I usually don't take my morning walks during the butt-crack of dawn, but the moving truck made sure that I would never return to the same sleep that had a rain-soaked dress, nor the stranger beckoning me to a gazebo on an estate featured in at least twenty-one BBC movies. There was no such gazebo awaiting me, but there's plenty of fresh air and trees.

I shut the back door carefully behind me, and immediately hear the shuffle of my parents in the upstairs master bedroom. They work sort of like dominos - I wake up, and suddenly everyone else springs to life. Which means my mom would be hoping to carry on her chat messages in reality.

I leap off the back porch and aim for the road, but not before my phone buzzes again.

...

Mom - u know when you invite them over take Jane with you

Dad - why

Mom - because

Dad - you go

Mom - no that's weird

Dad - take the whole family and let him have his pick of the litter

Mom - we r not puppies

Dad - nevermind he might like you too so scratch that don't go

Mom - I know I'm attractive xoxo

You - STOP NOW

...

I turn off the road and into the path between our properties. The ground squelches with the sponginess of spring rain from the night before. The birds are tweeting (hashtag, yay worms).

The sun peers over the low Chehalem hills, striped with vineyards and often expelling columns of smoke from burn piles. The air smells so damn good

I turn on my ipod and skip eight songs till I get to something by Hans Zimmer, with plenty of violins and no _bwam. _

...

Dad - OKY FINE

Mom - so can you go and invite him pls? take Jane

Dad - what happened to the hat guy

Mom - he dumped her for that girl we kept seeing at church!111!

Dad - son of a bitch

You - What about me, I'm single

Mom - he's too old for you he's like 32

You - That's 4 yrs older than Jane

And only 6 yrs older than me

Dad - let her marry him if she wants

You - Thanks Dad

Dad - you're my favorit

Dad - not really i dislike you all equally ;) ;) ;)

...

There is so much more I should be explaining right now.

But I can't.

I am not going to give you any context yet, I am just... going to let that rest for a minute.

...

Mom - NO EMOTICONS STOP IT IT FREEZESTHE SCREEN AND JUST

GIVES ME A BUNCH OF EMPTY SQUARES! ITS A FLIP PHONE

REMEMBER

Dad - how can I forget you've had the same phone for the past 15 yrs

Mom - BUY ME A NEW ONE

Dad - you broke every upgrade you've ever gotten

Dad - because there's nothing protecting the screen

Mom - don't you care about your wife having a good phone?

Dad - of course I care, your phone is like your third hand

You - WHAT R YOU DOING TO ME.

I am turning off my phone

if I get kidnapped and die it will be your fault

Mom - LEAVE YOUR PHONE ON OK LOVE YOU SWEETIE SEE YOU SOON xoxox

...

With annoyance, I replace my phone back in my pocket. I could complain more. I could put my foot down about being included in the trivialities of my parents.

But I have no right to complain, and nowhere to put my foot.

I was a college graduate drowning in student debt when I moved back in with my parents as a break-even 24 year old, returning to the nest after I thought I had finally flown away. But it wasn't just moving back in with my parents, which I could pretend was for caring for them in their old age even though they're not really that senile, no matter how much I pretend they are. No, it wasn't just them. I was moving back to a _still-full_ nest.

I rejoined my three young sisters; the seventeen-year-old twins Lydia and Katherine who are going to be seniors in high school next fall, and the ever reclusive Mary, who is carefully navigating freshman year through alternative school. I became the automatic den mother for the three of them. My mom is often out, working part time at a mobile catering service, and my dad is an admissions counselor at the local university, occasionally working as an adjunct in a few classes whose regular professors are on maternity leave.

I come home from my work around five-thirty in the evening, after a full day of sitting in a nondescript, gray cubicle, just shy of setting TPS reports on fire and throwing a red Swingline stapler at the assistant manager's head. I'll sometimes find Dad in his office grading papers and looking over application essays, and he hasn't even noticed that the twins are upstairs watching _Pretty Little Liars_ instead of doing their homework. Sometimes Mom rolls in at nine and asks him if they finished, and he shrugs and says, "I believe I overheard Lizzy straightening them out."

"And what about Mary? Did she stay out of trouble?"

"Oh, Mary's fine. She made some guacamole."

I was the one who made guacamole, and I found Mary sketching pictures while sitting fully clothed in the bathtub. She does things like this a lot. Once I found her dressed in a three-piece suit, a top hat and a fake mustache, lying on her bedroom floor reciting Shakespeare with her eyes shut.

We're not exactly 90s family sitcom material, but we're not exactly getting hauled off to prison for making meth cookies, either. (Can you even put meth in cookies? I wouldn't know.)

Two years later and I am a twenty-six year old still living at home, though considerably lonelier without Jane living here too. I have one major student loan finally paid off, with six more in progress, and my older sister - my best friend - left me to my devices not long ago.

Jane moved out and got an apartment in town with a few wild roommates, and everything is rather empty in her place. We are the closest, each other's greatest confidences and allies. Without her, I feel like there is no one for me to really_ talk_ to.

Without me around all the time... well, she has more time for the activities she enjoys. She has a particular fondness for finding bars with swing dances or line dancing, but finds herself shy. She likes big concerts but doesn't like crowds. She makes art pieces in local galleries but doesn't know how to handle compliments. She has a deep, fiery desire to be in the middle of a social circle, but doesn't like to be the center of attention. She likes loud music with surprisingly misogynist content but believes wholeheartedly in chivalry and true love. Loving my sister is loving the paradox. I might be the only one who can claim to understand all her contained, beautiful opposites.

Why is such a catch like this still single, you might wonder? She doesn't really want a boyfriend, she says, she wants to be _courted. _I have my doubts about what century she thinks she was in.

I reach the far end of our property, a humble seven acres of filbert orchards (hazelnuts to city folks), and watch sunrays filter between their scraggly, low branches, till the dappled light infiltrates the morning shadows. I can see the end of our street curve around the base of the hill, each driveway sticking out like a gravel arm. A little further down the treeline, and I can see a partial wing from the Big House. There are active sounds coming from their property, doors opening, windows slamming, scraping furniture, a radio being adjusted till it reaches a distant and crackling station of pop.

_Please don't play it, please don't play it, _I think.

_I'm all about that bass, 'bout that bass, no trouble..._

I turn up my ipod to dangerous levels, and walk along the edge of the orchard, swinging my arms and working my way up to a jog. I hate running, but I do it to show my doctor I'm not a complete loser. The implications still stung from my last visit when they looked at the questionnaire, and finding the answers suspicious, raised their eyebrows over a clipboard.

"Physical activity?"

"Walking from my desk to the water cooler and back."

"No exercise?"

"Not really? Should I start? I can jog. I've never really had to. But I can start."

"What about sexual activity?"

"Unless the water cooler from the water can make me pregnant, no."

"Not sexually active?"

"No...?"

"You know all records are kept confidential."

"Yes."

"And you must answer these questions truthfully to the best of your ability?"

"I know?"

"Sexually active can also be..."

"It's not happening!"

"It?"

"None of it is!"

"_..._Noted."

I reach the back door of the house within a few minutes, damp with sweat around my scalp and underarms. I push the old, wooden door open and tug at my earbuds until they pop out. Mom and Dad are sitting across from each other at the kitchen table, arguing. Katherine sits between them, looking somewhat pink, and Mary's back end sticks out of the fridge.

"There's my sunshine," says Dad. "Good morning."

"Morning, sweetheart," says Mom.

I take out my cellphone and wiggle it. "MY INBOX IS FULL," I announce, slamming it down on the counter. "You two text like a pair of middle schoolers. I was trying to have a relaxing morning."

"You always complain about being the last one to know anything," Mom replies shrilly. "This is my compromise."

"I miss being the last one to know anything!" I pull my hoodie off and join Mary at the fridge, looking inside for yogurt. "Is Lydia up?"

"She just left to spy on the moving van," Katherine replies unhappily. "I think her plan was to mysteriously sprain her ankle right in their driveway so the new hot neighbor has to rescue her."

"Did you see him?" I ask. "I didn't see anyone."

Katherine shakes her head, letting out a loud cough. "No. But Lydia says he's rich, so he has to be hot."

"There are plenty of wealthy people in the world who are butt-ugly," Dad chides her grimly. "Wealth can affect all kinds of people."

Katherine coughs again, twice as loudly.

"Kitty," Mom says, teeth clenched. "You're driving me up the wall."

Katherine clears her throat. "I don't exactly cough on purpose, you know."

"Try and fake it, perhaps," Dad offers unhelpfully.

"We spent money on your prescribed inhaler for a reason, darling," Mom adds. "I suggest you use it."

Katherine begrudgingly pulls her inhaler out of her pocket and males a particularly loud whistle as she inhales. She has been a lifetime believer (however incorrect) that being the twin with asthma makes her a martyr.

"Your father has refused to invite Mr. Bingley to our Memorial Day weekend barbecue," complains Mom. "Even though it is a perfectly neighborly thing to do. And considering the entire neighborhood is always invited... and THEY always show up... Mr. Bingley is going to feel very left out."

"Invitations are messy things," Dad replies. "You have to trick them into being friendly first. I don't want the guy to think I'm coming onto him."

"No one would think that," Mom answers. "Not from you, anyway."

"You'd be surprised," Dad says.

"You know," I say loftily, "You can alleviate about eighty percent of the stress in your life by not focusing on what you can't control."

"Get off your high horse, Lizzy," Mom rolls her eyes. "When you are my age and you have two single daughters approaching their thirties and not a single grandchild in sight, it gives your life a new mission..."

"Yes, how soon can we expect the grandchildren?" Dad asks me.

Mary finally emerges out of the fridge, holding nothing but a piece of bread. "Never."

"You've been digging in there for thirty minutes," Dad accuses. "What were you doing in there? Writing a novel? Just thinking? Have you come up with any opinions on the matter? We'd like you to weigh in on the topic."

Mary stares at him incredulously. She slowly reaches back into the open fridge door, removes a jar of jam, and slips behind me to the other side of the kitchen.

"While Mary's writing her dissertation on how to be a conversationalist," Dad goes on, shrugging, "Let's come back to the point. The new neighbor that is the greatest thing since Mary's sliced bread."

"I don't want to talk about this anymore!" Mom barks.

"Oh," Dad says disappointingly. "I thought you might want to hear about my meeting him yesterday at work?"

"Wait, what?" Mom slams her hands down on the table. "You met him already?"

"Turns out he was doing a presentation. A guest speaker for John Howell's economics class. He not only bought the Big House, but he runs a successful winery. Have you heard of the Netherfield label?"

"That's _him_?" I exclaim with surprise. "Their reds are actually pretty good."

Mary makes a mocking sound and pretends her glass of milk is wine. She sniffs and swirls it, and raises one pinky in the air, that, despite being a European thing for tea, seems to have just the right amount of snobbery for wine tasting. She glances at me for a reaction.

_Ugh, teenagers. _I ignore her. "Most of their vineyards are in Napa, though."

"Oregon Wine Country _is_ the new Napa," Dad says proudly. "People are finally beginning to take notice of that."

"I can't believe you didn't tell me you met him already!" Mom can care less about wine.

"It's a small university. I took him to lunch."

"And you were worried about coming onto him?" I laugh.

"Well, exactly, taking him out on a business lunch between classes is one thing, turning up on his front porch the next day and asking him to a barbecue would be one step too far. I mean, I don't want to break the man's heart."

"But he isn't gay," Mom insists.

"How do you know?" Dad asks. "He could be gay."

"But I want him to produce my grandchildren," Mom wails. "And I only have daughters!"

"It won't happen," Mary chimes in gloomily.

"Well, I knew turning up on his front porch would be too intrusive," Dad goes on, "Which is why I invited him to the barbecue yesterday, along with four or five other professors at lunch."

Mom stands abruptly from the table, collecting her dishes. "You have no shame."

Katherine coughs again, with a sly glance at both of our parents.

Dad pats her shoulder. "You may cough as much as you like, sweetheart. We're leaving." He collects his coffee mug and walks it to the sink, rinsing it out and dumping it into the dishwasher. "You'll all meet the new neighbor and his younger sister at the barbecue. And I didn't forget about you, Lizzy," he winked at me. "I invited students from that art history class I subbed. There's a large population of single men there. I don't really know this because they've said as much, I know this because its art history."

"Thanks, Dad," I say slowly, "But I am hoping you remember that a lot of your students are freshman in college. Some of them might have only just turned eighteen. They're a little young for me."

Dad holds his hands out defensively. "I have no poor opinions on cougars. Your mother chased after me when I was 21 and she was 26."

"Cute," Katherine offers. "Age is just a number, after all. But..."

"A five year difference matters between minors and almost thirty-year-olds," Mary interrupts.

("Thanks," I mutter.)

"BUT I don't get why you people don't consider ME once in awhile?" Katherine adds loudly. "I'm going to be eighteen in December. I'm probably closer to the ages of your art students!"

"You are NOT allowed to date a college boy," Mom snaps, wagging her finger. "You are too young and they expect WAY too much of their girlfriends at this age."

Katherine pushes away from the table. "I'm not one of those reality tv shows!" she exclaims.

"Glad to hear it!" Dad beams proudly.

"You certainly act like it," Mom is not so proud. "You know I'll indulge anything I can, and try and let you girls experience life freely, more so than when I was your age with strict parents, but I do draw the line at dating college students. You'd be pregnant or dead within a month."

As sensitive as a toddler, Katherine is just shy of bursting into the tears of unfairness as she flees the room. We hear her stomping up the stairs.

"Don't you think that's a little extreme, Mom?" I say. "Pregnant or dead?"

"Katherine has a very extreme personality," Mom replies. "She needs a lot of exaggeration to keep her behaving properly because she never, ever thinks of the consequences. I just need to give her an idea of worst case scenario. She'd be a nightmare otherwise!"

Mary sighs loudly. Not just any sigh, of course, but the one that is hoping Mom and Dad will melt away and ask her what's wrong and what can they buy her to make her feel better.

"You sound tired," I say. "Want to go outside with me? I'll walk around the property line with you again."

"I dislike sunlight," Mary says drastically. She takes a piece of toast with jam and leaves the kitchen, echoing Katherine's stomps upstairs.

I turn and notice she left jam smears all over the counter. "What a mess!" I exclaim.

"She's testing us, that's what happens when you're fifteen," Mom says with a strained smile.

"Was I ever this hormonal?" I ask, horrified.

"Never," Dad promises, "Female hormones skipped you entirely. You're the closest I've come to raising a boy."

I pause. "Thanks Dad...?"

"Anything for you, baby."

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please read and review :)


	2. Memorial Day

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Chapter Two

Memorial Day

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The Memorial Day barbecue is an affair that belongs on the cover of Better Homes and Gardens. The back patio becomes strewn with a dozen deck tables with colorful umbrellas over them. Longer tables in the covered sunporch, with sliding screen doors protecting the food from the bees.

The barbecue is a neighborhood event, a joint effort between neighbors Steve and Peggy Long, Lori and Mark Lucas, and my mother and father. Everyone brings their own meat and side-dishes to contribute until tables bend beneath them. Watermelon, corn-on-the-cob, macaroni salad, potato salad, fruit salad, deviled eggs, tortilla chips, salsa, apple pie, blackberry pie, shepherd's pie, steak, chicken tenders, hamburgers, hot dogs, corn dogs, and pork loins. There are five coolers of sodas, water bottles, beer, lemonade, and more beer. To entice Bingley's interest, Mom even makes sure there is a wine table in the corner even though she never touched the stuff herself.

Our slightly backwoods traditions make my feminism die from lack of sustainability and sunlight, but everyone above the age of forty does not actually care that they stepped into their gender specific roles. Five barbecues form in a semi-circle under the massive oak tree where The Men gather to do the roasting. The Wives (not the _women, _the WIVES) bustle back and forth from the kitchen to the sunporch to the yard. Young offspring run out to the driveway to redirect some weirdo who decided to drive one house over. By the end of it, there's about twenty-five families milling around. With paper plates piled high, they argue about the president and church, show off grandchild photos, and talk up their day job. Someone is always reporting back on their grown-up offspring's incredible accomplishments.

_"Well, Kelsey DID just make partner at the firm..."_

_"Liam has a regular-occurring role on that Netflix original!" _

_"Oh, you know Dee, he's still so down-to-earth even with that NFL salary! So what's Lizzy been up to these days?"_

Dad lights up a massive bonfire, someone is playing guitar, and Mary unsuccessfully tries to rope in six people to play a game of croquet. Bless her poor heart, the moment she gave up trying to pressure people into putting down the food to play, was the moment half a dozen people decided to play of their own accord; without a spot for her to join. She found a place to sit behind the apple tree and starting filling in her fingernails with Sharpie.

I'm in charge of a punch table. The punch table is not a popular spot for anyone under the age of fifty five. Everyone else was grabbing beers and soda, but every grandparent known to man is coming over and asking me if I have a boyfriend, and when I say no, they asked for a cup of punch as if that's my consolation.

It is definitely the prime spot to overhear every conversation in the yard and on the porch, set up around the corner of the garage under the latticed eaves. I'm specifically listening to Emma Wilson talk loudly about the latest wedding of the century (my god, we _know _you are the greatest wedding planner in the Northwest, get over it) when I pull a drastically large glass of wine out from under the white plastic table cloth and take two magnificent sips.

"I really am single-handedly responsible for their meeting," she says loudly. "I mean, if she hadn't been my nanny my entire life, where would she have had the opportunity to meet my dad's best friend?"

Emma sort of thinks she's God's gift to single people. That is, the single people she finds worthy of a second glance. Which doesn't include me, ever.

I'm drinking a 2009 Netherfield red wine called _Sailor's Warning_ and it's divine. Mom bought three bottles of it so Mr. Bingley would feel at home. It tastes like word _crimson_ sounds, velvet and hearty. It was a hot summer that year, which meant an abundant harvest, but not suffering the deadly results of a true drought. They had enough early-morning dew to keep their crop alive.

I hate to admit that the mere taste made me set very high standards for Bingley's personality. One imagines a vintner should live up to the vintage.

Mom walks by my table at an illegal speed, whispering, "He's here. Be cool."

At that moment, I notice Jane making her way onto the porch. Jane is always dressed to the nines and there is nothing she doesn't look beautiful in. That includes trash bags and a large chicken costume.

But today, she left the plastic and feathers at home for skinny jeans over brazenly tall nude heels, a flowing white blouse with bold turquoise statement necklace, and her long brown hair in effortless curls. I'm pretty sure a guy that works for Vogue climbs out of her bathroom vent and does her make-up every morning.

I glance down at my loose blue button-up, cut off denim shorts, and cowgirl boots. This was my costume. I'm more of a cashmere sweater and uggs sort of girl, but not for the hottest Memorial Day weekend known to mankind. I have the tendency to only dress for the weather, no matter what ensemble that throws me into. Though usually I can count on Jane to dress this way for family barbecues, she loves being a country girl too. Is there a small part of me that tries to dress in something my sister would normally wear to try and put myself in the same league as her? I didn't get the New York designer memo today apparently.

I shrug that off quickly enough. She's the gorgeous daughter, I'm the witty one, Lydia is trendy, Kitty is athletic, Mary is our resident goth. Does that make me the hipster dressed as a cowgirl? Even so, we're more complex. Kitty is too asthmatic to play sports. Mary would rather die than wear black lipstick and listen to Metallica (isn't that what the goth kids are listening to nowadays?) Lydia thinks she's sexier than all of us put together. I have gorgeous eyes. Jane looks like a famous movie star only ninety-percent of the time. The other ten percent, her hair is wrapped in a towel and she's bemoaning fresh acne.

So what the _hell _am I worrying about?

(no one's perfect.)

I glance back up and wave. Jane lights up and waves back, and I realize I'm not the only one who noticed her impeccable appearance. Bingley, flanked by an entourage, has finally parked and walks onto the patio. Both he and his companions are noticing Jane, too.

Mom assaults the crowd before I have the chance to take a good look. She animatedly welcomes them to our home and grabs Jane's unsuspecting elbow, pulling her to her side for an introduction.

Bingley, from what I can see, is pleasant and classically handsome. A navy blue T-shirt, jeans that can't possibly hide his expensive business casual shoes, and a thick beard. Sparkling, Disney princess eyes and skin like water stained oak. He has the rugged, sweep-you-up-in-the-rain look, like a character from Nicholas Sparks. And he is handing Mom a wine bottle of his own label, blushing apologetically for not knowing what to bring beforehand.

"Please accept this blood sacrifice," I mutter to myself. Crowd watching has one advantage... voiceovers.

"Yes," I reply to myself shrilly, as my mother takes the bottle, nodding and smiling and elbowing Jane. "I accept the blood, now please accept this virgin. Yes, thank-you, demigod..."

Mom begins to back away slowly.

"I must put on something a little more comfortable," I continue. "I... I mean... put the wine with the others. Please, make yourselves some children... I mean, comfortable. Damnit."

Mom scoots through the back door into the kitchen, leaving Jane to smile politely and gesture her arm out at the yard. "Look Simba," my narration continues, "everything the light touches, is our kingdom..."

She catches eyes with me, and points, "And there is my sister, the homely one... don't worry, she doesn't bite. Much." They're all looking at me. I realize they can probably see my mouth moving and are wondering why I am talking to myself. I wave tentatively, keeping my mouth clenched shut to avoid further temptation.

Bingley isn't too bad looking, really. Jane is looking at him like he's the wish her heart makes when she wakes up in the morning and singing birds pick out her clothes.

Two girls that are clearly his sisters stand on either side of him, both exactly alike in tan, eyes, and hair color. They survey our lands with Pharaoh-like disapproval. One is pregnant, the other looks like she is allergic to children.

There are two other men with them. The jock, wearing only Nike clothing, has his hand in the pregnant girl's back pocket. Clearly the boyfriend or husband. Or he's just some creep and she has no idea his hand is in her pocket, though it's unlikely.

The other looks like a cardboard figure. On one hand, he's stunningly attractive, ash-blond hair cut to a respectable short length and a five o'clock shadow under color-defying eyes. (Are they clear? Blue? Or green? Help me, every-teen-paranormal-romance-ever!) I make an executive decision. They're blue. Greenish blue, but blue nevertheless. Isn't there a gemstone I can compare them too? Where is the god of verbs when I need his blessing?

But on the other hand, his grim frown and vacant stare make him less like a celebrity and more along the lines of Handsomest Criminal on America's Most Wanted. What a cheerful vibe; respectable looks, but also suspected of armed robbery in Arkansas. The bodies of his murder victims likely concealed in the trunk of his fancy car.

I suddenly notice Mary setting small patches of grass on fire with a box of matches she probably lifted from Dad's kitchen drawer. I bolt in her direction and miss the opportunity for Jane to bring the new neighbors over to my humble punch table and introduce me.

I sequester Mary with punch duty and her pyrotechnic capabilities are now limited by being close to a liquid source. I begin to wander the yard and patio, greeting the way I am supposed to greet, thwarting questions about my personal life (Why yes, I DO live with my parents!) and finishing off my glass of wine.

"Lizzy," Mom whispers to me urgently, "We have overflow in the bin. Can you take care of it, please?"

"Sorry, Betty-Ann, George," I say to the elderly couple I was currently cornered by, "I'd really love to hear more about the Taylor's wedding, but, I am _needed _in the kitchen."

George is only all too happy to see a woman aimed for a kitchen so I think he forgives the early exit.

:::

The kitchen is currently empty. I pull a fresh bag from the cupboard and switch it out, tying off the bag full paper plates, red solo cups, chicken bones, and soda cans. (Come on, don't you people see the recycling bin right next to it? This is Oregon. We recycle _everything._)

Our Golden Retriever, Yippee, starts barking like a much smaller, younger dog from the closed-off family room. Yippee is short for Yippee-Ki-Yay, and when he goes nuts, Dad likes to make the addition _mother fuh-_

"Lizzy!" exclaims Peggy Long, emerging from the bathroom off back entry. Peggy Long is my mother's coworker at the catering service, a neighbor five doors down, her loyal source of gossip, and also her bitter frenemy. "So good to see you, sweet heart." She gives me a huge hug that I cannot return, my hands full of garbage. "What are you up to now a days? Still working at that um... um..."

"An office," I supply unhelpfully. "Yes, it's great."

"How _wonderful!_ You know, I bet I could put in a good word for you at Freeway Feasts if you ever want a change of scenery..."

"I'm okay, thank-you," I say. I always thought Freeway Feasts sounded like a fancy way to say _roadkill_. "I appreciate the thought. I don't think my Mom and I should be coworkers."

Peggy laughs. "Mothers and daughters make great teams. Can I help you with anything in here?"

"I'm just taking out the trash, um, but thanks..."

"Did you see the guy that bought the big house? He's the son of the owner of the Netherfield label..."

"The son?" I echo. "I thought he was the owner."

"Heir to the empire," Peggy emphasizes meaningfully. "He's being groomed to take over."

I didn't want to think about anything getting groomed. "Interesting. I haven't met him, but he seems nice..."

"You'll be lucky to get a word in edgewise, your sister has THAT taken care of..."

"Sorry?"

"He hasn't left her side! Haven't you been watching them? I certainly have. They look beautiful together. She's been showing him around the property and he _literally _just offered her his jacket when that wind picked up..."

I think back to the wind gusts. "Oh, I was busy rescuing a table cloth at the time."

"Well, you missed a magical moment. He's just infatuated with her..."

"Um... they just met."

"Everyone JUST MET someone, sometime." Peggy opens our fridge for no possibly good reason, looks inside, shrugs and shuts the door. "Trust me. I have an eye for this thing. They're hooked. Both of them."

"I wonder how old he is," I say, not expecting an answer. "He looks younger than I expected."

"He's twenty nine," Peggy rattles off the information like it's her own family. "His friend is thirty one. His sister is thirty-four, the preggers one. Her husband doesn't really matter."

"Did they fill out a survey for you or something?" I ask, thoroughly creeped out. "How do even know all that?"

"Bingley entered all their names in the drawing for winning the St. Paul rodeo tickets," Peggy laughs heartily. "I went through the forms in the drawing-box, just to have a little peek... It's Charles... Charles Bingley. His sister's name is Caroline, the younger, that is. The older one with the bun in the oven is Amelia, his brother-in-law is Alex Hurst. And lastly, Fitz Darcy... He has to be a friend because there's no familial or name resemblance."

I remember the earlier conversation I had with my parents. "It could be Caroline's boyfriend. Or _Charles's _boyfriend."

"I certainly hope _not_," she replies, disgusted.

"I hope some of our guests don't patronize him if that's the case," I say, pretending not to notice her cold, homophobic response. "People can be _very _insensitive about these things in sheltered communities."

"I wouldn't worry about him," Peggy would never admit to any such thing.

Yippee starts barking again.

"Sorry," I say, setting the garbage bag down again. I open the cupboard and pull out a bag of dog treats. "I need to go tame the beast."

"No problemo, I'll see you soon, sweetie," Peggy blows a kiss. I hear the screen door slam as I truck to the living room where Yippee is quivering with anticipation.

"Yippee," I say sternly, "Calm yourself." I grab his hollow squeak toy and shove three treats inside, dropping it over the child's gate. Yippee attacks the toy with joyful enthusiasm, and will be thus engaged for a half hour, at least.

I hear the screen door slam again. I sigh, hoping that Peggy is only judging the interior of our cupboards before leaving again. I _really_ don't want to talk to Peggy again anytime soon.

Someone uses the sink and shuffles around. I hear the screen door swing a third time, and a voice calls, "Fitz! Fitz!"

"In here," says a bored voice.

_Slam. _I pause by the entry to the kitchen, shamelessly eavesdropping.

"She found the napkins."

"I think I'll hang out in here for a moment anyway."

"What for?" asks the other, cheerfully.

"Just taking a break from all the noise."

"That's stupid."

"Not really."

"Well, it makes you look sort of creepy."

"I can live with that."

"Come to the badminton court. Jane and I are playing. I can convince Caroline if you're playing."

"Charles, you look like a kid in a candy store. What are you thinking right now?"

"Oh my GOD. I can't even believe she's looking twice at a guy like me. I look like a grumpy fisherman."

"You're also rich."

"I don't think she's really picked up on that yet. Anyway. She is gorgeous. And graceful."

"I think she is the only person here that fits that description."

I frown indignantly. He basically just called everyone else ugly and clumsy. Insult by absence of clarification.

"When Professor Bennet invited me when I was at the university seminar, I literally thought we were coming to one of those stingy dinner parties with the tiny finger foods..." Charles gushes. " This is the best. It's a real country barbecue. They had Brad Paisley playing on the radio. I entered in all of our names for rodeo tickets! FITZ. _Rodeo tickets." _

"You've found your people at last," says the other, obviously Fitz Darcy, with dry bitterness.

I laugh to myself. My dad _isn't _a professor. But the thought is kind. My dad refers to himself as Professor Bennet as a joke often enough that hardly anyone knows.

"It's true," Charles goes on, "I'm going to sell the Porsche. I want to get a Chevy truck. The perfect thing for driving up and down that gravel hill and even going up into the vineyards... I've picked a site where we're building the showroom."

"Slow down, Little Joe."

"Did you know that Jane graduated with an art degree? She tried majoring in interior design and majored in art instead, but she took more than half the classes, and it turned into a self-made art degree with a concentration in design... See that art piece over the fridge? She MADE that. For her parents. Isn't it beautiful?"

"Not really my style. It looks like a beer advertisement."

"I want her to give me some thoughts on the showroom. A native Oregonian should have thoughts on what it looks like, right? Especially since I'm doing the hunter's cabin motif. She suggested redressing some wine barrels with old fashioned fishing net, for the entry. She knows where all the genuine antique stores are where we can find all the right dressings. Isn't that a good idea?"

"I guess so?"

"She even worked at the chicken farm that we saw down the street. She might dress like she's from LA but she's really not afraid to get her hands dirty. She's not even _vegan. _She likes meat. MEAT, Fitz! Real meat!"

"Revolutionary."

"She volunteers at the..."

"CHARLES. You can detox later. You should go back to her and enjoy that face of hers before she becomes _the one that got away. _You're wasting time here when you could be wooing her."

"Join us."

"Maybe. I don't know. I am not really the badminton type."

"You're a dork."

"Whatever you say."

"So... you, uh, saw her sister, right?"

"I did," he responds sarcastically, "And there was absolutely nothing significant about it."

"She was pretty cute, right? You don't think she's cute?"

"If you like librarians dressed up as cowgirls, sure."

"I thought you loved a modest looking girl. Classic. The white tee and denim. She had nice legs."

"They were so white I'd need sunglasses for a second glance."

"But that is totally your type, man," Charles exclaims, "The intelligent kind. Since when have you _not _liked a pale lass who looked like she wandered out of a... a... misty moor?"

"How do you know she's intelligent?"

"You just said she's too pale, right? So she's probably indoors reading whenever she can. Just a thought."

"Charles, I love you, but you're not that observant. Jane told you that Elizabeth likes reading."

"That's besides the point."

"She's really not that attractive, Charles. I don't exactly want to give any extra attention to some adult-child who still lives with her parents."

I somehow knew it was coming, and yet it still hurt.

It floods me with remnants of inadequacy from the high school years. Never from Jane, of course. Classmates. Church members. Sometimes, my parents, without directly saying so. Most of my formative years were spent knowing that I was not the prettiest sister.

But more than a slight on my looks, most of all, I don't appreciate the reminder about being out of money. A reminder coming from someone who clearly didn't worry about money at all.

_Bastard, _I think. _Trust fund baby. _

"Okay, okay. Just trying to be a wingman. Don't squat in here forever. I still need to introduce you to Professor Bennet. He's pretty cool. He took me to lunch, I told you that, right? And he introduced me to a bunch of his other colleagues. There's some really great networking opportunities available and he's more than happy to help us get started. They invited me to a Saturday market that highlights all the local vendors, so we can get a booth for Netherfield..."

"Charles, for the love of god. Breathe, remember? And Jane is waiting for you, isn't she?"

"Okay, okay, I'm going. Jesus. You are so aloof. Have a beer, for god's sake."

"Blasphemy. We're wine makers."

"We're in the_ country_ now," Charles exclaims loudly.

"WINE country," Fitz Darcy reminds him as the door slams for the millionth time.

I absently stroke Yippee's head, who has long forgotten his toy to stand obediently under my hand, eyes shutting and a globule of drool dripping down his mouth.

Old houses are both a blessing, and a curse. You can hear anything. But you'd rather not know everything.

"Buh-bye, Yippee," I say, giving him one last pat. I straighten my shirt, pinch my cheeks, and flip my hair. When I walk into the kitchen to find a very shocked Fitz Darcy, I act as if I hadn't heard anything.

"Find everything you need?" I ask, with such casual politeness that its painful.

"Yes, thank-you," Fitz Darcy replies. He looks guilty and trying desperately not to show it. I always imagined a vigilante super hero in real life would act just like him... plagued by that alter ego, the guilt weighing visibly on his face and shoulders. Of course in this case, that secret identity is an asshole, not a hero.

I pick up the trash bag that I had left abandoned, walking to the back door and, pretending that I don't know he wants to stay behind, I hold the screen door open for him and look at him expectantly.

"Oh, uh, okay," Fitz Darcy stops leaning on the counter and picks up speed to scoot past me. I wonder if he's worried I'll smell his fear if he walks too close. "Thanks," he says hastily.

"No problem," I reply lightly, "I just need to take out _all _the trash."

I don't bother to look at his face. He knows I heard him. And I know he knows. I am certain he's wishing the ground will open him up and swallow him right now. Me? I'm feeling smug.

I smile triumphantly and fairly skip down our driveway where the roadside garbage dumpster waits. I swing the trash bag into the green interior, hide behind the hedge, and burst out a completely uncoordinated victory dance. Then I fix my hair again and resume my casual appearance.

I glance into the badminton court (not really a court, as it is a side yard where we strung up a home-made net) at the other side of the house, noticing that Charles had taken Darcy's advice. They're playing two on two, with Caroline sitting nearby on a park bench, examining her smart phone with eyebrows pursed.

Its Jane and Charles versus Amelia and Alex Hurst. The birdie flies out of bounds due to a bad move from Charles. Jane playfully smacks his shoulder, albeit gently, with her badminton racket. Charles holds out the handle of his racket, _en guard, _and they begin dueling mockingly. Some loose wires from the rackets become entangled, and Charles and Jane manage to stand too close for the sake of untangling them. If they blink they'll brush each other's faces with their eyelashes. Amelia and Alex point and laugh, then Amelia heaves a huge sigh and strokes her pregnant belly as if to remind them that she could give birth by the time they're done flirting.

"Sweet lord, they ARE hooked," I say. "And it only took them a few hours."

Peggy is rarely right. When she is, _I'm shocked. _

"What are you staring at?" asks a recognizable voice. A voice that is balm to my very soul.

"Look," I say, throwing my arm around Charlotte Lucas, who has arrived late, as per usual. I gesture wildly. "My eldest sister has found true love at last."

Charlotte whips her aviators from her face. "Whoa. He is... really hot."

"Just wait till you hear about his friend..."

"Why? Is he hotter?"

"No. He may have started out that way, but his true colors shine through."

Charlotte puts her arm around my waist and we begin to walk side-to-side, pretending to ice skate. "Oh pray, do tell," she says wistfully, tossing her black, curly hair from side to side.

"_Habia una vez,_" I try, "_Un hombre guapo de...um..._"

Charlotte smacks the back of my head. "Not in _SPANISH_." Charlotte is half Mexican, and has the most natural teenage Valley girl voice in the world. She also can't speak any Spanish.

"My apologies," I try again, "Once upon a time, a man of supposed good looks, was talking in my kitchen and didn't know I was eavesdropping..."

When I finish the story, we're laughing like a pair of lunatics by the time we rejoin civilization. It was nearly worth the experience in order for me to retell the story to an appreciative audience. Charlotte always thinks I'm hilarious.

The mild discomfort inside my heart dissipates.

...

...

* * *

...

...


	3. Feelings Thus Acknowledged

...

Thank you for all your lovely reviews. Please enjoy chapter three!

All my love,

Pip

...

* * *

:::

Chapter Three

Feelings Thus Acknowledged

:::

The night wanes and families begin to pack up their leftovers and wrap them in excessive tinfoil. Peggy Lucas claims she had made an appointment (it was 9 PM) otherwise she would _certainly _stay to clean up. As usual, it falls to me, my parents, Jane, Kitty, Mary, Charlotte, and her parents. Lydia makes herself remarkably and characteristically absent.

Charlotte informs me she will be staying on my couch. "I brought my toothbrush so I could sleep here," she says with a shrug. "I can help clean until I drop." She's also tipsy so she might drop anyway.

It's one of those friendships that form young, but not too young, so we missed the danger of sharing a playpen and then growing apart during high school. We actually met in eighth grade instead, and have slowly but most assuredly become platonic soul mates. She has refrigerator privileges, which means she can walk into our home and make a sandwich at any given time - even if most of us are at work. She's that kid in the sitcom that goes through a hole in the fence and watches every family blow-out until the sitcom-Mom suddenly yells, "Do your parents even know where you are?"

Formalities of any kind do not exist, and we can talk about _anything_ in graphic detail.

Though I have to draw a line at Charlotte's work at the veterinary clinic; she enjoys telling me a little too much when she assists with surgery. She likes to use the word _incision _just to watch me shiver with disgust.

:::

Charlotte's parents, Lori and Mark Lucas, work on breaking down tables and folding table clothes and carting mysteriously abandoned casserole pans indoors. Mom forfeits helping outdoors and goes directly to work in the kitchen. She's up to her elbows in Dawn soap and barking for Lydia, which makes Yippee bark too.

I think it's a fact worth noting that Charles and Caroline Bingley are the last guests to leave, hanging out way past the ordinary time as if they were lifelong friends. Charles keeps insisting that we let him help clean up after the crowds, much to the beaming satisfaction of my hungry looking mother.

"Please," he repeats, snaking in and whipping something out of my or Jane's hands, "Allow me!"

"Please, Charles, I'm falling asleep standing up, if I had known you were going to spend the night I would have asked Fitz for a ride."

Caroline keeps pushing him to stop and take her home, though I can't help but think that she could just walk for five minutes and get home herself. We are, after all, technically next-door neighbors. Though in the country, neighbor is a relative term. We're next to a _a lot _of trees and grass... and they're on the other side.

Caroline finally remembers her manners. "Thanks for your hospitality," she says to me, and it was the first words she'd spoken to me all evening. "I really do appreciate it, and I would _totally _stay and help, but... I _have _been unpacking all day."

"You didn't lift a finger!" Charles says. "You put your ear buds in and unfolded a lounge chair."

Caroline ignores him. "You know how it is?"

"Sure... so are all of you... renting the place or something?" I play dumb. No one wants to take Peggy Long's information for granted.

"You're so cute. No. Dad bought this vineyard and plans on expanding the Netherfield label to the Willamette Valley..."

She pronounced it like Willah-meddy.

"Will-lammit," I correct.

She stares. "Come again?" she asks.

"Will, then lammit. Willamette."

'That's not how it's spelled."

"Don't worry, this pronunciation will help you blend in with the locals."

"She's only ever seen the word in print," Charles laughs. "This is what happens when Facebook starts automatically muting all the videos I send her about the area. She only reads the subtitles."

"I'm sure there are plenty of Californian regions known to residents that wouldn't make sense to us either," I try to be nice about it. "If instagram is any indication, we're just the hashtag PNW. Pacific North West? Or Pacific Northwest Wonderland? We'll never know."

Charles chimes in again. "In California we simply refer to anything up here by the closest, biggest city. Portland, or, south of Portland. Eugene... or... north of Eugene. We never saw anything about Meridian till I saw the _deed _for this place. Never saw the words _Willamette _or _Chehalem Valley _until I was living here. It's like a miniature culture shock. For all the social media we have, we're still very self-contained."

Caroline is not having any of his philosophical musings and rolls her eyes. "Oregon people are so _weird _with their names. At least in California most of the names are Spanish. And most of us know some Spanish from school."

"NOT ALL OF US CAN SPEAK SPANISH!" barks Charlotte in a sing-song voice. Her mom begins to yell at her in Spanish. Charles chuckles and leaves us alone again to help Jane.

"Anyway," Caroline continues, "Charles has been promoted. He's expected to get the marketing out, remodel, build a show room, network the area, hire the viticulturists..."

"Is it a test for the prince before he inherits the kingdom?" I joke.

Caroline nods solemnly. "I believe so."

"And your sister?"

"Actually, she's not really involved in the company. She and Alex moved to Portland some time ago... to be closer to Mt. Hood, the beach, hiking trails, blah blah blah. Alex noticed the property for sale and contacted my Dad. So they're just... around."

"And what about you?"

"I'm getting a little place in Portland soon enough. I cannot _stand _being out here in the country. Ugh. It's temporary. I just thought I'd get away from family for a little while, you know? A bit of wanderlust. Though I won't be satisfied with _Portland, _I can tell you that. It will be temporary until I decided where I _really _want to go. _Probably _L.A."

"So what... do you do?"

Caroline looks as if I just offered her a partially eaten fruitcake. "I'm a fitness instructor and instagrammer."

"Like instagramming is your job?"

"I have over a six hundred thousand followers. I should hope so." She winks.

I decide to let that one go. "And Charles's friend? Frizz?"

"You mean Fitz?" she laughs. "Fitz is consulting for finances. They know each other from college. He will follow Charles into the wild lands of the North to make sure he has an advocate and doesn't make any stupid financial choices."

"How helpful," I say. Not unlike Peggy, Caroline need only be prompted, but I know I'm not getting the whole download. She is too crafty to over share. For every single thing she says, there are a million things left unsaid.

I feel that Caroline Bingley is spinning a web and I'm walking right into it.

"His official title is interim accountant of the Netherfield expansion, but," she lowers her voice, "Just between you and me, I think he's going to be offered the position of chief financial officer any day now. I don't know if he'll take it though. He's already the new owner of the Pemberly label."

I've never heard of Pemberly label. _Another _wine? "He works two wine companies?"

"Aren't you cute," Caroline laughs, "The real work falls to the CEO. Ownership, again, passed from parents to son. Ironic how that works. It _is_ sort of like a kingdom. Fitz Darcy hardly does any real work, he smiles for promotions, signs papers, gives tours of his favorite vineyard, makes a shit ton of money, and gets to write little blurbs for the labels."

I suspected as much, and yet I'm suddenly disappointed. I don't know why I expected any differently. Of course Fitz Darcy is filthy rich but hardly does any real work. He makes a "shit ton" of money and thinks it places him in a position of power to judge people like me, evicted from her apartment, trying not to default on student loans, and moving back in with her parents? What an asshole.

Maybe if he worked at his own company at an entry-level position he'd gain a level of understanding for the little people. And while we're at it, he could get visited by ghosts of Christmas past, present, and future.

"What are you two talking about now?" Charles asks loudly, holding a stray hot dog bun in one hand, and a broken red solo cup in the other.

"Moving is _terrible_. Especially with siblings around," Caroline shouts back, waving a hand at Charles.

She expects me to somehow pick up her cue that this is a discussion she loves to have with other women but is best left unshared with her brother. _She probably doesn't want her brother to know how much she pays attention to Fitz Darcy. _

I take the cue. "Oh, sure," I shrug aimlessly. "I remember the days of moving in and out of the dorms. You must be exhausted."

Caroline smiles at me. A friendly smile, but her eyes remain narrow and calculating. "Oh, yes, dorms... boarding school?"

I pause long enough to make her uncomfortable. "...University."

"How _fun!_" She says, as if I held up a stick figure drawing I had made during preschool that morning for her fridge and her approval. "What year are you?"

"I graduated back in 2012."

"Oh, wow, I'm sorry. I thought you were younger."

I can tell she wasn't actually surprised. "It's fine." I laugh amiably, "I don't mind looking younger. It will be helpful when I'm eighty-nine and everyone else has shriveled up from excessive tanning bed use."

A very tan Caroline doesn't have a chance to reply. Mom drops something in the kitchen, and it clatters so loudly that every head on the porch jerks upwards. Saved by the bell.

"Gotta go," I scoot through the door, skidding into the kitchen to find a runaway box of tupperware lids had fallen from the top of the fridge. How that happened, I couldn't begin to tell you.

As I help collect the slippery plastic, Mom is talking full speed ahead without a single pause.

I don't hear any of it. I watch through the window as Charles and Jane walk side by side towards his Porsche, which looks terribly out of place beside my gray 1989 Honda and Dad's green 1991 Ford Ranger.

Caroline speedily gets into the passenger side. Jane and Charles remain outside a moment, talking and smiling. Jane tucks her back behind her ear... a nervous gesture I'm familiar with.

And then they exchange phones, the screens lighting up their faces in a greenish glow. Charles looks completely ecstatic, and Jane looks bashful. They fill in each other's information, and pass the phones back to each other. I suppose their fingers probably touch briefly.

Then they leave, and Jane floats back towards the porch.

:::

Eventually Lori and Mark also bid their farewells, and Charlotte excuses herself to go inside and pet sit so that my mom won't pull her hair out. Yippee seems to sense that Charlotte is studying to be a vet and works with animals three days a week. He just about pees himself with excitement every time she's within licking distance. It's a special relationship.

I find Jane making good use of a broom handle as a dancing partner. She swings around the porch in lazy circles, humming to herself. Cinderelly.

"Well, look at you," I say with a smile, grabbing a cooler out of the sunporch and dragging it across the cement. "Someone looks happy. And I think I know who may be responsible for that..."

Jane looks at me with wistful expression. "And pray who is that, do tell?"

"A certain tall, dark, and handsome man named Charles."

Jane sweeps the broom from side to side gently, admitting nothing.

"You do realize you're sweeping up dirt, not pixie dust, right?" I ask.

She gives me an annoyed look. "I'm capable."

"Sweep, woman! Sweep! and don't give me that look, no, I am going to hover out here until you tell me what you think of Mr. Charles Bingley."

With a low groan I heave the cooler onto its side and dump the melted ice out into the grass. The miniature tsunami interrupts two maskeeter-eaters making love in the air. (for those of you not from Oregon, they're supposedly called _crane flies _in other parts of the world).

"Well, if you intend to force me," Jane replies loftily, "I think he is the most beautiful person I've ever met."

"And?"

"I know you're not supposed to trust first impressions... but... he has everything in maturity, personality, and morals that I have ever wanted in a man. A real man. Not a man boy."

"Five points for Charles!" I declare, leaving the cooler to let it drain over night. I return to the sunporch and grab the second one. "Also, he's hot. Did you notice that?"

"I did and I can honestly say I don't see how he could even look twice at me."

"I heard him say the same thing about you."

"YOU DIDN'T," Jane drops the broom. "You're kidding, right?"

"I'm not."

"He thinks I'm pretty?" Jane tries to sound casual, picking up the broom again. "Wow. I... um. I'd never expect that. From a guy like him."

"You'd never expect that?" I repeat in disbelief. "I certainly did. It's fairly routine in my perspective."

"What? Being attractive? No it is _not," _Jane disagrees quickly.

"Here's the difference between us, Jane. Compliments always take you by surprise." I dump the cooler into the grass. The sudden rush of melted ice made a sound like a slushie machine. "They never surprise me. Ever. If someone doesn't say, 'isn't Jane's hair pretty today?' it's unnatural."

"Oh, stop it, you know that's not true."

"Your modesty has always been a virtue, Jane, but you're not allowed to be stupid. It's okay if you know you're _hot._"

"Good grief, Lizzy, you're laying it on thick tonight. Have you been drinking?"

"Probably!"

"Are you tipsy?"

"You know I'm not the lightweight in this family," I remind her to my smug satisfaction. "I'm just saying _accept _his attention. Roll with it. Be cool." I grab the third and final cooler. "I over heard him talking to that Grump Ass friend of his, and he said he liked you. He wouldn't shut up about you."

Jane squeaks. "Really?"

"I give you my permission to love him and make beautiful babies. You know I've had some strong opinions about people you've gone out with before..."

Jane gives me the benefit of an annoyed laugh. "I am fully aware."

"You have a tendency to like people quickly, you know, and then they show their true colors later... You know Dad only just found out about the Hat Guy?"

Third cooler goes up, over, and sloshes. Now we have a flood in the flower bed.

"I wish you all would stop calling him that! It's _Stephen." _

_ "He wore a trilby and called it a fedora."_

"How do you even KNOW that stuff? Lizzy, seriously..."

"My point is you took forever and a day to acknowledge that Stephen was just... so..."

"Awful?" Jane fills in sadly. "Immature? Unhygienic? Unfashionable? Irresponsible with money?"

"Hearing you describe him like that gives me hope for the future."

"I'm honest, you know that," Jane huffs. "You act as if I am blind to mankind in general but I'm really not. I just like to give people the benefit of the doubt... giving everyone _grace_. What's so wrong with that?"

"Nothing, but you have to admit that sometimes you are naive. Letting Stephen string you along for god knows how long because you were blind to everything that he really was."

"Of course I'm _not_ too proud to admit I was wrong about Stephen," Jane says, leaning the broom against the wall. "But it's so much better to love everyone you meet and let them disappoint you, then it is to love no one and hope they can live up to impossible expectations."

"You should have been a teenager in the sixties."

"It's something you should think about doing, Lizzy Bennet," Jane says sternly.

I abruptly steer the topic. "Well, speaking of first impressions and loving everyone... what did you think of his sisters?"

"Well, Amelia and her husband were fairly snooty at first," Jane shrugs. "See? I _can _form hasty judgements."

"So hasty," I say dryly.

"They were too busy playing on their smart phones to form any friendships, but they kept mentioning _skiiing this slope _or _hiking that. _That's why I suggested badminton. They finally lightened up a little. I cracked their code. They thrive on energy and athleticism. They can't handle people who are... still. _Lazy? _What's the word?"

"Idle?"

"Exactly."

"And the other sister?" I continue.

"Caroline was _so_ nice. I like her a lot. We're very similar people! I've followed her on Instagram before, it took me awhile to realize she was the same person. She's sort of famous."

"You must have missed the part where she was sending negative signals from her eyebrows."

"You're so weird. She was _not. _They're certainly not as extroverted as Charles. But once you get them talking... Caroline and I have_ a lot _in common actually. We wear the same make up. And we have the same size shoe. She said she had a bag of heels she was getting rid of, and said she'd bring them over here for me instead! She's very thoughtful."

If it were a bag of shoes from Charlotte Lucas, its _thoughtful_. A bag from Caroline seemed... mocking. I could not imagine someone like her giving Jane a bag of heels without a message; subtly placing Jane beneath her in the caste system as if she were a Salvation Army drop-off zone. A benefactor of her generosity and ego, but not her friendship or compassion. It was placating charity without grace.

"What are you thinking?" Jane asks, in my pause.

"She has judgy eyebrows," I repeat. Whenever Jane puts me in a corner I fail in eloquence.

"She was polite, more than I can say for you," Jane shakes her head. "Though I will agree with you on one thing."

"And what's that?"

"Charles's friend? Fitz Darcy? You're right about him. He's a total Grump Ass."

"And what makes them friends, I wonder?" I say. "Charles is obviously a people person. And Mister Fitz Darcy... Well, I don't get it. One is bright and vivacious and full of... ready laughter and quick wit," I add the last part in a posh British accent, "But the other is decidedly morose and unfriendly."

Charlotte pops her head out of the back door. "Are you talking about us?" she asks. "Because I would most definitely agree that I'm full of ready laughter and you are decidedly morose and unfriendly."

"What makes you friends, I wonder?" Jane chuckles, with a pointed look at me as if she was hoping that I was learning a valuable lesson.

"I think I'm skipping the moral of the story," I say. "If you want me to catch a point you need to tell me what it is."

"Maybe you and Fitz have more in common than you think!"

"We have nothing in common. I'm _insulted _at the suggestion," I sigh.

"Opposites attract," Jane says with a smile, looking fondly at the broom.

"Why, Jane? Did you get... _swept off your feet?_" Charlotte cackles loudly. Yippee hears her laughter and starts barking wildly. "Not again," Charlotte sighs.

"If only I could find a love like the relationship between my best friend and my dog," I say gloomily.

:::

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	4. Adult Swim Hour

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Please let me know what you think :) I need reviews to feed my writing! I crave feedback!

All my love,

Pip

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:::

Chapter Four

Adult Swim Hour

:::

...

Dad makes eggs for breakfast. To anyone we may look like a postcard country family, with reliable Ma and Pa Cleaver. But I might be mixing my metaphors. The general rule is, my parents do not cook us breakfast. We are responsible for feeding ourselves. On a Saturday morning, Dad usually stumbles into the kitchen around 9:30 am, with Doc Brown hair and wearing his bright plaid robe. Mom has already been working on her garden since sunrise.

But this morning, Dad is in a good mood and feeling creative in the culinary department. He's cracking eggs around 7 AM, turning up the Classics radio station, and spontaneously commanding Charlotte (also an early riser) to brew strong coffee.

I stumble downstairs in a green hoodie, ugg boots, with black makeup trailing down one side of my face and hair in a messy bun. Mom is already at the table, reading _Fifty Shades of Perrenials and Annuals; The Color Spectrum of Flower Gardens_.

Charlotte is pouring Mom a cup of coffee. Kitty sits beside her, looked as if she had already conquered half her day. She wears typical Kitty garb; athletic shorts and a tank top, long hair pulled back, and a blemish-free face with no make-up. She is the tallest of all of us, and strangers (usually cute boys) _always _ask which college she attends and if she plays soccer. She has always sort of reminded me of Bee in _Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants. _A natural beauty but lacking the magnetism due to her social awkwardness.

This morning, she really looks the part, sipping a Dutch Bros mocha that she obtained by _walking _to the nearest location. She is wearing one of those electric bracelets that count your steps... or calories... or something. Whatever the hell it is.

"Morning," I say in a raspy voice.

"Morning," they chorus.

"Bonjour," Mary says, coming into the kitchen behind me.

"Gracias," responds Charlotte with (nearly) sincere belief that its the correct response.

"It's supposed to be _buenos tardes_," Mary says in an aloof tone, walking over to the stove to see Dad's eggs. She glances into the frying pan and makes an obvious grimace.

"What?" Dad exclaims with offense. "WHAT? What's the face for? They're SCRAMBLED! Don't you like eggs? Don't you know what farm-fresh eggs _mean _to the environment?"

"I doubt she knows what they mean to the environment," I say, "She's too busy correcting someone else's Spanish. Which, I might add, is _buenos dias, _not _buenos tardes._"

Mary tries to let out an annoyed sigh, but Mom interrupts her without even looking up from her book. "Mary," she says tiredly, "Charlotte is allowed to _attempt _to speak one of her native languages without you insinuating she can't."

"Whatever," Mary takes an apple out of the fruit bowl and goes out the back door, plugging her earbuds in and sitting by the back steps next to the overturned coolers.

The smell of fresh coffee, eggs cracking in the frying pan, and the radio increasing in volume even convinces Lydia to get out of bed. Lydia looks like she stepped out of a _Freeform_ show about the everyday darkness surrounding today's teenagers with a slight hint of the supernatural. She never shows her face in public unless she was wearing perfect makeup and a slightly immodest outfit. Her eyeliner is just short of a Batman mask, it's so thick and dark.

"Good morning!" she cheerfully shouts, dancing into the kitchen and planting a huge kiss on the top of Mom's head. (She's also a little bit of a suck-up). Mom instantly forgets she didn't help clean up crew last night and pats her elbow. "Morning, sweetheart."

"Going somewhere?" Kitty asks, rather suspiciously.

"The Fosters."

"Again? You were just there."

"We are going to the mall," Lydia tugs Kitty's pony tail playfully.

"How are you getting there?" I ask.

"Sarah has her license, duh," Lydia answers, "And by WE... I mean you," she points at Kitty, "...me, and Sarah. There's a sale at Forever 21. There's this new dress that cinches in the middle that would fit us both, despite your obvious height disadvantage."

Lydia somehow always makes Kitty's differences a disadvantage, even if the proper saying is that the taller twin has a height _advantage. _

"We're not getting matching clothes," Kitty replies.

"Since when have we _ever _been that kind of twin? I'll get a blue one - you can get the green one. It _seriously _would look _amazing _on you..."

"I don't wear dresses," says poor Kitty. She is often overwhelmed by Lydia. I've always joked that Lydia tried to absorb her in the womb and was unsuccessful, so she tries as often as she can elsewhere.

"Time to let go of Adidas for your senior year, darling," says Lydia, "it's _so _2005."

"I like Adidas!"

"But you don't really play sports!"

She does, though, in the intramural sense.

Kitty waves her inhaler wildly. "I TRY!"

"Good lord," I say. "Girls. You make me feel like I just stepped off the teacup ride."

"Oh, Katherine, just go with your sister, you'll have _fun,_" Mom insists. "I want to see you get out of the house and play dress up a little."

"Being social is not a problem for me," Kitty replies with as much attitude as she can muster. My mother usually sides with Lydia, so if Kitty wants to get her way, she tries to impersonate her. Ironic to say that she is terrible at impressions, even of her own twin. "It's the fact that Lydia and Sarah don't seem to have any problem planning things without me. She was my friend first."

"We met her at the same time," Lydia protests.

"We may need to concentrate our efforts for socializing a different daughter," I say, with a gesture towards Mary's figure on the back porch. She craves attention but prefers isolation. Sometimes I worry we're cooking up a sociopath.

"Mary is too young to spend what little money she has at the mall," Mom says disdainfully. "She's going through her _I hate the world _phase of puberty. We all went through one. Let her be."

"We all went through one?" I ask doubtfully.

Lydia grins at me, her bleached blond hair shining with sunlight coming through the window behind her. She's a knockout of course, but not mature enough to handle it. "You don't understand," she says gleefully. "Because you've never left the phase."

"Being twenty-six is not the same as hating the world," I say condescendingly, "It's called hating student loan debt and coming to grips with the rest. Someday you'll understand."

"Coffee, Lydia?" Charlotte yelps loudly, holding the pot in one hand and vanilla creamer in the other.

"Yes please," Lydia throws herself beside Kitty. "And Charlotte, you _have _to show me how you did your hair. I simply _love it."_

"This _morning_...?" Charlotte drawls with confusion, pouring her coffee. "I didn't do anything. I'm pretty sure it's all on one side of my head. Like the eighties."

"No, last night," Lydia gushes. "Those curls were _flawless._"

"I used a curling iron?" Charlotte says, not trying to be sarcastic, but usually succeeding. She hands me the coffee pot distractedly. Charlotte might wait on my family with the politeness of a favorite daughter, but with me, she puts on no such airs.

I grin and pour a very full cup into a glass and add ice. "Lydia, you curl your hair all the time."

Lydia shakes her head. "Let's admit it. It will never look as good as Charlotte's."

"That's very sweet of you," replies Charlotte.

"I think all of you girls looked ravishing last night," Mom finally puts her book down. "Of course, I am hoping one of you... anyone above the age of eighteen, and preferably of my own blood, sorry Charlotte... attracted the new neighbor."

"I wouldn't mind attracting him," Lydia exclaims.

"This is the part where the minors of this household are supposed to behave appropriately," Dad warns her, stirring at his eggs with a scowling expression. "If he took even _one _look at you, he'd be in an orange jumpsuit faster than you can spell _pedophile._"

"How _do _you spell pedophile?" Kitty whispers to Lydia. She never claimed to be the smarter twin.

"What do YOU think, Charlotte?" Mom pushes. "Did you find him attractive?"

"This is a weird conversation for my _mother _to have with my _best friend," _I moan loudly.

"Devilishly beautiful," Charlotte responds happily, waving me off. "But it doesn't really matter. Jane is obviously the love of his life that he never saw coming."

Charlotte enjoys my mom; even worse, enjoys being _friends _with my mom. Lori Lucas is very strict and traditional, borderline clinical to the point of coldness. My mom provides a vicarious warmth she desperately wants. And of course, there's always the fact that Charlotte knows if she ever runs out of money and needs a place to go, Jane's room is still empty. I wouldn't say she actively seeks friends only to help herself, but she certainly chooses friends wisely. When the going gets rough, she is always surrounded by kindness, love, and a helping hand - a true support system. I certainly can't fault her for that.

"He never left her side," Mom is going on. "It seems like he truly admires her. But like a _gentleman_, you know?"

"Uh huh," a chorus three or four people in monotone. When Mom gets like this, it's best to just hum and nod before you get bulldozed.

"I may have heard a teensy bit of gossip from Peggy, who overheard Tommy... You guys know who I'm talking about right?"

Charlotte rolls her eyes. "I thought I saw Peggy was staring at us like a crazy person, _I_ was the one that Tommy was talking to. So he said, that _Charles_ said, that _he had never seen so many naturally beautiful women in his life_ and he looked right at Jane when he said it."

"Well," Mom sighs, obviously pleased. "It might mean nothing. He could be a womanizer."

"Tommy may have overheard that one teeny tiny conversation," Charlotte giggles, "But it's nothing compared to the bitch fest that Lizzy overheard... is it, _Ell-iz-a-beeeth_?"

"Shut up," I reply with a laugh.

"Try not to rub it in her face," Mom says. She had heard the download from me last night before bed about Darcy's snide comment about me. If there is one thing I can guarantee about my mother, she grants instant sympathy to anyone who needs to vent. "It's not _kind _to pick apart the physical attractiveness of your host's daughters."

"Only to pick apart the physical appearances of the host's guests?" I asked.

Mom smiles. "I'm the hostess, I may pick as I please."

"He sounds like a jackass," Dad says. "I'd rather be hated by him than liked by him,_ ya dig?_"

"Language, Bennet," Mom snaps.

"Yeah, don't repeat 'ya dig' any more," I finish, dead pan.

Lydia chimes in. "I talked with him too, for a moment. With Jane. Jane was like, 'how do you like it here?' and he just glared at her, and he's like, 'IT'S FINE'. And I was like, 'Just fine?' like... what's wrong with it, other than the fact it's Meryton? It's not like he's my age and forced to live here. And then he got a phone call and was all like, 'I asked for those Q-One results LAST WEEK!' and stormed off."

"What's Cue One?" Kitty asks. "Is that code for like... playing pool?"

"Quarter one," I explain. "You know, budget results?" She stares at me, blankly. "For a company. How much spent, earned, etc... You break them down into quarters, usually, but the subject _can _change. It could have been votes at a French Wine contest for the Netherfield Pinot Noir for all we know."

"No one speaks this language except weirdos," Kitty replies.

"Peggy Long got her clutches into him for a few moments," Mom is eager to get back into the gossip that had been dangerously sidelined by Kitty's education. "And she said; he was so _proud_ of himself he could barely answer her friendly questions."

"To be fair to him, she was probably asking questions like an alien probe," I remind her.

"Dude, Peggy Long can put her claws in him as much as she wants," Charlotte laughs loudly. "He deserves it after what he said about you, Lizzy. Heck, I'd lock them in a room together with no escape. See what happens."

The screen door opens and Mary walks in with an apple core, tossing it down the garbage disposal. Her mood seems to have improved. She glances into Dad's concoction of eggs a second time, nodding with approval. "You added cheese," she comments.

"I'll always be cheesy for you," Dad answers happily. Mary slaps her forehead and groans.

"There will be other times to get to know Mr. Fussy, I'm sure," Mom says. "Just... don't try to win him over, Lizzy."

"I have absolutely no intention of winning anyone over," I answer. "Life is too short for that. I have friends already, I don't need to waste my time on... as Dad delicately put it... prideful jackasses."

"He has a right to be prideful," Charlotte says, "Being a rich consultant for a prestigious label and everything. Maybe he worked really hard for it. But he has no right to be a jackass and no right to be proud of it."

Mom slams her spoon down. "JESUS, LANGUAGE." She looks over at Dad. "See what you started?"

Dad giggles evilly and begins sprinkling basil and thyme over the eggs, humming a little. If there was anything I could say for certain about my dad, it was that he loved making my mom crazy. He loved it so much he married her so that he could do it full-time.

"I could forgive his pride," I say. "If he hadn't taken shots at _mine_."

"Everyone is proud," Mary interjects. "It's one of the seven deadly sins. But I don't know if he seemed proud. He seemed vain to me. And everyone uses vanity and pride interchangeably but it's really not the same thing. A person can be proud without being vain. Pride is what you think of yourself, and vanity is thinking about what others think of you..."

"Very astute, Mary," Dad says. "You'd be getting an A in my class!"

I smile. Mary _is _smart. She just needs better manners to accompany the intelligence.

"If I were as rich as Mr. Darcy," Lydia exclaims, "I'd be a celebrity. I'd be in those gossip magazines and everything. All my pics would be of me wearing giant sunglasses with a glass of wine in one hand hanging out with two giant dogs on an antique sofa with a few shirtless guys behind me... like those photo shoots..."

"You are clearly not meant for the celebrity lifestyle," Mom says, with understandable relief.

"And on that note," Dad announces, "Scrambled eggs are ready! Hold up your plates!"

No one has plates yet.

"Or," he continues, "Please fetch a plate from the cupboard and form an orderly line. Charlotte gets to go first because she's our guest and she made the coffee."

"You forced me to make the coffee," Charlotte mutters.

"Hey, if you spend the night, you get drafted into daughterly duties," Dad replies. "There's always room for another one, like I don't have a million of them already."

:::

In two hours, the Willamette valley grows uncharacteristically hot for spring. Its approaching ninety degrees by eleven am, very unusual for May here.

Charlotte and I decide to enjoy our Sunday afternoon on the back porch in lounge chairs, reading books and swapping random observances.

"This girl as cool as Mulan," I say. I was reading _Till We Have Faces _by C.S. Lewis.

"No one is as cool as Mulan," Charlotte replies from behind a pair of massively awkward sunglasses.

Dad is mowing the lawn, passing by us every three minutes with a wave and showing off his embarrassing Hawaiian print shirt.

Lydia and Kitty bid us a cheerful goodbye as they headed to the mall. Mom retires to the flower garden for weeding, and Mary is instructed to join her _in proper work clothes. _Mary stomps by us a few moments later, wearing an old purple T-shirt with a unicorn on it and a pair of overalls she hasn't worn in years.

"You look awesomely hipster, Mary," I call after her as she walks by. "I know you don't like wearing colors, but you look _super_ trendy!"

Mary looks down at her outfit, and looks back at me with a dissatisfied shrug. "I'm burning this outfit when I'm done helping Mom."

"Please don't! It's so cute!"

"I don't want to be a hipster," Mary says, "I want to be badass."

"You be who you want to be!" Charlotte chimes in, and Mary simply gives her a strained smile and rushes off the porch.

"I'm trying to get her to retire from stud bracelets and chokers and the over indulgence of eye liner," I whisper to Charlotte.

"I think you're being judgey," Charlotte snaps back. "YOU CAN'T CHANGE AN ELPHABA INTO A GLINDA." She holds up her book and waves it in my face for emphasis. Typical. She's reading _Wicked_ by Gregory Macguire.

My phone buzzes with a text from Jane.

...

Jane - Are you busy?

You - what's up

Jane - Caroline has invited u+me+Charlotte over to swim

You - There's a pool?

Jane - behind the house! yeah! Wana come? PLEASE

You - Usually I don't swim

Jane - Please come it would be weird otherwise. they're airing out patio furniture n stuff and want to set up the deck, come on it'll be fun

You - do we need to bring a housewarming gift

Jane - OMG NO

...

"Who're you texting?" Charlotte asks.

"Jane says Caroline invited us over to swim."

"There's a pool there?"

"Apparently!"

"Cool. I'll get my suit."

"You brought your suit?"

"Honey, I never go anywhere without it."

"Okay... I guess that's it then." I hit reply.

...

You - OK Charlotte and I will be there

Jane - YAY!

You - When?

Jane - Right now

You - OK be there soon

...

I forego the usual colors of choice and pull out the black two-piece, something more hip-hugging and chest-supporting than typical bikinis. It makes my ass look good.

"That's what you're wearing?" Charlotte asks. She is wearing a typical turquoise bikini that emphasizes _everything _and leaves nothing to the imagination.

"That's what you're wearing?" I imitate sarcastically, then instantly sober. "I'm kidding. You do you, boo."

"I look sexy. You look like a grandma."

I glare at her. "Wow. Could you be a little meaner? Geeze."

"I don't mean you _literally _look like a grandma. I mean you're _covering yourself up_ like a grandma. I should have said nun."

"Not helping. And this is _fine._"

"Why don't you show yourself off a little?"

"There is no one I am hoping to attract, Char, I don't know these people!"

"All the more reason to flaunt a bit."

"Darcy could be some pervert for all we know. Maybe he's a serial killer and he texted us with Jane's phone to lure us up to his chop shop."

"Why would you even THINK that?"

"I'm just saying."

"You're insane."

"I'm wearing this swimsuit, Charlotte. You can't talk me out of it."

"Fine. Be a church mouse. I'm in the car when you're ready."

I sigh with annoyance as she leaves the bathroom, turning towards the mirror. No one can tell me how sexy I should or shouldn't feel. I do not have such a low self-esteem that I have to dress it up with perfect outfits or the most expensive makeup. I've always been the kind to be attracted to a person's intellect - and hope, someday, that's what someone would find attractive about me, too. Not that I don't think I'm pretty. I _do. _I just don't care if _others _think I'm pretty.

"Thanks for the pep talk, Bennet," I say sarcastically to my reflection, applying waterproof mascara. So I have _some _pride, but there was nothing to be done about my hair. Its sticking out in a wild mass of frizzy curls. I don't even _have_ curly hair ordinarily, but a mid-morning shower and humidity saw fit to turn me into Medusa. But like I told Charlotte, there is no one to impress.

:::

"You're know we're the buffers, right?" Charlotte asks when I get into the car.

"Do explain?"

"Jane wants us there so it's like a group setting, you know? Protection against having intimate conversations with her hope-to-be. We're the buffers."

Charlotte turns on the radio. _Imagine Dragons_ is playing.

"I think it's _easier _to get to know someone when there's a group," I muse. "Observing interactions... or how someone treats their family... is a good indicator of whether they're a good or a bad apple."

"Point taken. But if Jane wants Charles to know that she likes him..."

"Oh, I think he knows. She focused entirely on him last night."

_RADIO ACTIVE, RADIO AAACTIIIIVE... _

"Sure, she _looked _at him. But she moves slowly. He may have no idea that she likes him already. She should really lay it on thick... otherwise he probably won't be able to tell!"

"But she usually doesn't show her feelings," I remind her, "So if I can tell she likes him, he'd be an idiot not to be able to see it too."

"But he doesn't know her like we do. You see what I mean?"

"She's not hiding anything. Those big smiles and lovestruck eyes and bashful giggles? Jesus. If he doesn't know already he's going to find out that she's interested today."

"But it's always in mixed company. I don't think that's really an ideal setting. You know Jane. She needs like, a romantic picnic in the park... a candlelit dinner on a bayou... I think she needs to do the whole flattery act. Compliment him. Talk to him only. Text him winky faces... I don't care. Something. I want her to be assertive! She can be such a dainty princess sometimes."

We turn left from our street, to the unmarked side street made of dirt and gravel up the hill and leading to many a hidden driveway to other farms, vineyards, and mobile homes.

"I agree with that," I say, "But we can't hope she acts like anyone but herself, right? Charles should like the _real _her. If she turns into one of those flirty go-getters it will create a false perception of her. Jane needs to know that he has fallen in love with her true self, not her caricature, for her own peace of mind. Especially after Hat Guy."

Charlotte turns into the long driveway, and the car trembles and crunches over the steady gravel incline. The gate is standing open, waiting to gobble us up. The oaks laced together overhead throw dappled spotlights in roving patterns across the windshield.

"I think they should just follow the three date rule, have sex and get it over with, and then go from there," Charlotte laughs, bobbing her head to the loud music.

_All systems go..._

I start laughing hysterically. "You're hilarious. Don't do the whole _don't do anything I wouldn't do _thing..."

Charlotte giggles. "Because we both know there isn't much I wouldn't do..."

I howl with laughter as she pulls to the front of the house, parking by Jane's purple Mazda. Charles Bingley runs around the side of the house wearing swim trunks, dripping wet, showing off a six pack of abs and swinging his dark hair out of his face. He waves cheerfully, looking absolutely stoked to see us. His tanned skin is toned like... like... well, there was just a lot of attractive muscles going on there.

"_Oh myyyy,_" Charlotte drawls in a George Takei voice.

"Not a word, not a single word," I hiss, opening my door.

"Welcome, welcome!" Charles says excitedly, holding my door open for me. I struggle out on the tilted driveway and he shuts the door, running over to give Charlotte a hand and shutting her door for her as well. Hm, Gentleman points for Bingley. In the most archaic sense.

"Welcome to Netherfield! Well, sort of." he gestures to the wide vineyards stretching on both sides of the driveway behind the oak trees. The vineyards ran sideways up either side of the house, disappearing behind it until they were up and over the crest of the hill. "As you can see, healthy plants, harvest should be good. The previous owners took really good care of them." Charles took my bag for me and offered to take Charlotte's.

"Oh, I'm good, thanks," she said.

"You brought towels! You didn't need to do that! We unpacked and washed all the towels. But we need everyone to test out the patio furniture. Caroline is making margaritas. She makes the best margaritas. Do you drink?"

"Why, yes," Charlotte said, a little too quickly.

"I indulge sometimes," I said. Charles motioned us to follow him, and then paused. "Wait, no, I'll bring you through the house, so you can see," he said excitedly. "I'll leave a puddle behind me but... hey... it's not carpet. We can mop."

He led us up the front steps onto a very wide, wrap around porch. It wasn't an old house, but you could tell that the designers did what they could to give it every convenience and artistic flavor of a country mansion. The door was ornate, with two floor-to-ceiling windows on either side.

Charles opened the door and motioned us into its cool, dark interior. Unlike our older-than-dirt house, they had A/C. To the right, there was a large dining room big enough for thirty people. The walls were scarlet, the trim was white, and iron wine cooler wrought to look like an ivy-covered wall stood as tall as a person in the corner. The table was black wood, with opened boxes sitting on top, and several newspapers wrapped around partially concealed glasses and crystal sets.

"That's all my mom's stuff," Charles admits. "I'm pretty sure she and my Dad will move up here, maybe stay a few months at a time. Just to make sure I'm running things properly. Of course months after _I've _done all the unpacking. That will be a good time, I think, for me to magically find my own apartment and take a long business trip down to our locations in California."

"Parents, amirate?" Charlotte cackles nervously.

Ahead of us, there's a large stairway, leading up to a landing where a massive window looks out onto the hill. The stairs turn at the landing and goes up over our heads, which leads me to notice a medieval-looking chandelier. Its a bit dusty.

"It's such a mess, we're still unpacking," Charles apologizes.

"It's really not that messy," Charlotte gulps.

To the left, three steps down into a sunken, carpeted living room, there's a _giant_ flat screen TV and an L shaped couch around it. There's a smaller, more casual dining area on the other side of the steps, separated from the hall ahead of us and the living room by graceful arches, leaving all the rooms open and welcoming.

"Holy..._shit,_" I mumble. Thinking back on the casual, rustic barbecue we just hosted suddenly makes me very grateful to have an old home like I do. But did they find us shabby by comparison? Charles, maybe not. Fitz Darcy and Caroline, probably. Not that it matters.

With go down the open hall past the stairs into the huge kitchen. The Island in the middle is as big as my kitchen at home. Counters wrap around the room, a window as tall as me looks out onto a deck with a pool.

To the right, a second living room... the family room, I suppose. I wouldn't know, I've never lived in a house with two living rooms!

There's modern leather couches, a glass desk in the corner holding pieces of a desktop computer, an electric guitar in a stand, and another flat screen. There's more boxes on the floor and a tall lamp standing in the very middle, awaiting to be placed.

"I know it's not much," Charles is saying as I tune in again, "It doesn't exactly have a theme or anything. We have too much stuff that's personal, like, Caroline's cool travel stuff... Paris posters and all that... and I have some rock and roll stuff from my turbulent teenage rebellions. I mean, she'll take all of that when she gets her own place, but I'm not kicking out her out till she finds the perfect apartment. So it could be in the fall. No reason why she shouldn't feel at home for a few months, right?"

"You're a very considerate brother," Charlotte says eagerly.

"Which is why the show room isn't going to be hosted out of the home, which I think makes sense, doesn't it?" Charles rattles on. "Keep business and personal separate. I don't want to feel like I can't leave a pair of shoes out once in awhile. Ya know?"

Charlotte laughs. "That makes plenty of sense." She looks a little struck by the beauty. Both in the house and on his abs.

Charles slides open the back door, stepping out onto the deck. We're on the first level of the patio, where we find more unopened boxes, a traeger barbecue, and about thirty folding chairs stacked along the railing. Down one step, and we're on the _colossal _deck surrounding the even _bigger_ pool. There's lounge chairs spread along the edges, and a couple of porch tables with umbrellas open up over them.

"Here's everyone," Charles Bingley says, as if we shouldn't have expected anyone. "I believe we were all introduced yesterday but I'll give you a refresher. There's Alex, Caroline of course, Amelia down there, and Fitz... and probably some shareholders on google hangouts... are over there hiding in the shadows being boring."

"Again, have I said 'great place' yet?" Charlotte fills in easily. "Now we finally get to see what all the fuss is about. This house has been up here for - what, six years now? A topic of gossip, certainly. Some gal at work said Oprah built it."

Charles laughs loudly. Charlotte has always been good at small talk to get the ball rolling. I on the other hand am always waiting for someone to set themselves up for one of my witty one-liners, which does not go over well with strangers.

"If Oprah was here this is the first I've heard about it," Charles says. "Thank-you, I hope to be proud of it in a week or two. Make yourselves comfortable."

Alex the brother-in-law jumps off the diving board, waving a casual greeting before causing a small tsunami. Amelia floats in an inner tube, resting a People magazine on top of her pregnant belly. With a wide brimmed sun hat and a sunglasses, she looks like a pre-natal Jennifer Lopez on an hidden island getaway. She waves, and then returns to talking to her future child. "Look at daddy jump off that board," she says. "Daddy is going to make Mama's magazine wet."

Fitz Douchey sits at one of the tables under an umbrella, with a thin, expensive laptop plugged into an outdoor outlet. He wears a headset, and despite being in the middle of a conversation, he watches us disembark the steps and nods in greeting. His eyes linger over me momentarily as if he wants to say hi, so I immediately turn around and look for someone friendlier.

Caroline stands a mobile bar with a fake bamboo awning. She's wearing a white lace dress thrown over her bikini, dangling from one shoulder but not accidentally. "Welcome, girls from next door," she greets cordially, "Glad you could join us for our first unofficial summer party." She places tiny umbrellas from a jar into the cocktail glasses, some of them lime green, red, or white. "Drinks are almost ready."

Jane waves Charlotte and I over to the empty lounge chairs beside her. I gratefully walk around the edge of the pool and dump my small bag beside her.

"You look adorable," Jane says quickly.

"Adorable? _You_ looked like you escaped from a page of US weekly," I reply.

"Is that a bad thing?"

"No, it's a good thing."

Charlotte dumps her bag beside mine. "What's the wait? Get in!"

"I'm still trying to heat up," Jane answers.

"But I'm feeling swimmy," Charlotte says. "I might splash you."

"Don't wait for us," I answer.

"Babies," Charlotte snaps. She throws off her cover dress, marches her perfectly tanned self over to the edge, and dives in so beautifully that she looks like a mermaid.

Amelia lets out a spontaneous clap when Charlotte emerges, her wet hair thrown back the way other girls dream of throwing their hair back. "I can tell you're a good swimmer," she says. "Unlike my perfectly thoughtless hubby over there." Alex waves sheepishly, now lounging on a bright pink pool noodle.

"Ever on a swim team?" Amelia asks.

"Two years of it in college, four in high school," Charlotte treads water nearby. "Just for fun. I'm doing vet school now."

"That's hilarious," Amelia replies, "I was on swim team two years in high school, four in college. For awhile I was trying to get into it competitively."

"Same! I was on a list for junior Olympics diving, but I ended up quitting and picked up gymnastics instead."

"How funny. When I quit, I picked up mountain biking!"

"Someone mentioned you and Alex are both really into outdoor activities."

"How we met, actually... I was the girl who acted like a dolphin," Amelia says, "Alex was a swimming instructor... eventually he found a way to get into biking as well. And in my pants. It turned out well for him."

Their conversation ebbs and flows in perfectly harmony. I am proud of Charlotte for the ability to make friends instantly. She has an active personality and deserves someone to talk about subjects I usually didn't participate in.

Charles walks over to us with two drinks. He serves me first, a white, and to Jane, the red. "Please enjoy, Ladies," he says with a happy smile. "No one has any fruit allergies, right?"

"No allergies," Jane says. "So thoughtful of you to ask!"

"Just to make sure. "I didn't ask what flavor you wanted; I prefer to study a little first, guess, pester Caroline, and then see if I'm right. Well?"

We each take a sip. "Coconut," I say, "My absolute favorite. You _are _good."

Charles snaps his fingers. "I knew it. And what about you, Miss Bennet?" he says this to Jane, in an exaggerated faux-British accent.

"Strawberry, is it?" Jane takes a second sip. "And possibly another flavor. I can't put my finger on it."

"You mentioned enjoying mango yesterday," Charles grins.

"That's it!" Jane beams at him. "And only in passing! I can't believe you remember. We talked about a _lot _of things yesterday. It happens to be my favorite as well."

"So what's the trick?" I ask. "I am assuming you do this with wine, usually, and not margaritas."

"You are correct, but there's no trick. Just talent!" Charles winks at Jane. "Try not to think of me as _too _creepy. I get Caroline's wrong all the time. That's why she insists on making them. But she does take my suggestions."

"You've done an excellent job," replies Jane. "I bet these talent is useful as co-owner of the Netherfield Vineyards."

"I sure hope so, especially when I'm hosting our first grand opening of the Oregon branch."

"Or Vine," I add. Jane laughs.

"Right, the Oregon Vine," Charles nods. "I'd like to be able to tell by a customer's walk and talk which sort of wine they are... are they a white? Red? Bitter? Sweet? Dessert or red meat?"

"A poet?" I quip.

"Poet or scholar, hipster or middle aged wino... I can't wait to know them all." Charles sits down on the lounge besides Jane. "I've been thinking more about utilizing your local knowledge."

"Oh, absolutely, I'm here to help," Jane answers.

"Do you have a small local paper with a leaflet for new winery prospects? Ads and invitations?"

"Oh, we've got _everything... _The Meridian Graphic, Hotspots, Willamette Valley Weekly..."

I fade into the background and watch them talk animatedly with each other. Charles is besotted. Jane is polite and eager to please, but Charlotte may be right about one thing... there's almost not _enough_ flirting.

I keep waiting for her to compliment him, but she holds back, and instead tries to be as helpful as possible... which, in Jane's opinion, is the right thing to do when someone asks for assistance. She draws a line between work and play and would never presume that someone _wants _her to flirt when they clearly asked for professional advice.

I glance away from their conversation. Alex, Amelia, and Charlotte float in a huddle, talking and laughing like a reunion of old friends, their drinks lined up along the wall awaiting their sippage. Their topic of choice is their worst rock-climbing injuries, something I have _nothing _to contribute to. I sigh and feel the sun beginning to roast me, so I take the opportunity to get in the pool.

I am not a diver, or even the best swimmer, so I just sit on the wall for a brief second before slipping off into the water. It's an instant enclosure of blue ecstasy slamming shut over my head, cutting short all loud conversations and plunging me into a silent, throbby haven of bubbles and light. This is probably my favorite immersive relaxation experience, aside from yoga.

Suddenly inspired, I sit cross-legged on the bottom of the pool for a moment, then try to hold a yoga pose, my hands pressed like a prayer into my chest, letting air out of my pursed lips little by little. When I run out, I push off and arrive back at the surface, the noise of reality bursting around me.

My eyes flit across the pool and notice something strange. In the black shadow under the umbrella, almost too stark to see because of the sun's blinding contrast, Fitz is standing as if he's planning on running towards the edge of the pool and dive in; tie, slacks, and all. When we make eye contact, he abruptly sits down again, reaching absently towards the ground, where his headset had fallen. Why in the world would he drop his expensive bluetooth on the deck and stand up?

I glance around the pool, everyone is occupied, except me. I _was _underwater for a decent amount of time.

_Oh shit, _I think, _He probably thought I was drowning and was going to play lifeguard. _Then I rethink this. _Or that's making myself seem so self-important that a guy who doesn't even __like__ me would even notice I was underwater for any given amount of time? Unlikely. That's really egotistical of me. _

Caroline appears at his elbow, laughing and teasing him for being a klutz, placing a coconut margarita close to his laptop on the table. He says _thank-you _and gently pushes it back another inch, glancing back over at me.

I realize this time _I'm_ the one that's staring. I quickly swirl around in place, duck underwater again, then re-emerge over by the stairs. I return to my lounge beside Jane and pull _Till We Have Faces _out of my bag and relax in my seat. Classical books are my escape from the weird, even when they're weirder, and perfect for holding up in front of my line of sight so that I do not accidentally stare further at the weirdo across the pool.

_'Whether it's madness or a god or a monster, or whatever it is, she is happy,' _I read. '_You have seen that for yourself.'_

I look casually at Jane and Charles as I read the passage.

_'She is ten times happier.'_

:::

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